Category: Poetry (Page 1 of 2)

A Limerick Ode to Mr. Carll

Paul Carll worked in the coal pits,
But on Christmas Eve he called quits,
And down by the crick,
Lit a dynamite stick,
In a flash he was blown clean to bits!

Poor old Mr. Carll is the Christmas Eve ghost of my humble neighborhood, Dorothy Patch. Every year on Christmas Eve he walks the patch, singing Christmas carols until, at midnight, we hear the tell-tale “boom” that announces his departure for another year.

I usually leave a little brandy or bourbon out on the porch for him and come inside. This year will be so warm, though, that I may just sit on the porch with some moonshine and a cigar and try to meet him in person. (Probably best to hide my lighter, though.)

Dorothy Man Blows Himself Up in Celebration.

Paul Carll, who is employed at Dorothy works, near Latrobe, was blown to atoms Tuesday at midnight while trying to celebrate the advent of Christmas. He ran a wire from a telephone battery in a foreign boarding house to some dynamite in a can. The explosive was prematurely set off.

Selected Mad Libs from Our Family Dinner Table

Candlemaker Crunch.
Deck the stounge with poison ivy.
Ralphie Boxbender wants only one thing for Arbor Day.
Children bounce off the laundry room when you give them a vegetable.
Second cousins mended socks and sewed cheeses over holes in clothes.
It was November of 2016, and Armenia had a loud inside game.
And all that glitters is plum.
In facial expression, welcoming kitty kat.
Fast Mario Hedgehog is an upcoming 3D spiky germ.
Teacup Dinkleburg was a sporty writer.
United Hungry Church in Kirby’s Dreamland was the center of Jerry’s life.
The procedure went dank and the baby is up and zooming around.
Consistently super tasting craft poison, brewed locally.
President Brother Burgerking W. Littlegirl.
PickyPants Jackson thinks he has the vaguest solution for a vacant property.
He believed the appointment of Mr. Dumptrucks was a cool mistake.
Members of Tacoland Tom’s inner circle revealed their forecast at sunrise.

Grey House

Grey house,
Black gutters.

Stand on the brick path,
And enjoy the cooling
Shower of the leaky gutters.


A tree across the road, the
expected thing stops happening.

The volley evaporates them
into the forest like the mist or
the deer whose skins they wear.

The shrieking, from another world,
but the lead pierces the boundary.

Neon Chandalier



Muster here you mighty, you men who’ve earned the name
We gather in the great hall, to greet a hero bold
With shining shields the honor guard, shall safeguard one whose fame
Has vouchsafed with his valor, a vault among the old

For Tyler Doohan

Bird Day

She looks at the odd light and asks,
Dad, am I dreaming?
And then she teaches
Me more about birds.

This morning I saw a killdeer
In the parking lot at work.
It tried to draw me away from its eggs
By pretending to be injured.

I looked at the odd light and thought
Am I dreaming?

Haiku: Lincoln Highway

Sun burns mountain fog
Even the buildings are ghosts
Glass eyes watch us pass

Limerick: Emergency Poet

This evening, this light, and your laugh,
All deserve a fine epigraph.
So quick, call a poet!
Hurry, don’t blow it!
After dusk they charge time-and-a-half.

A Not Quite Storm

The gym class voice from the
airport (or is it the bus depot?)
interrupts the regularly scheduled
thunder to deliver its nightly warning
like one of those psychedelic
bull horn shouts from a Beatles
album where you can’t make out
a word of what Paul is saying
but you know what he is trying
to say somehow, some magic way
of hearing that works just fine if
you don’t try too hard.

And what Airport Paul is saying tonight
is the same thing he says every night, Brain:
The weather will be severe and I
should go inside. Consider me warned
Paul, but the weather is severe more
often than not and I think it’s a hell
of a show so I’ll stay put and watch through
my own smoke at the rain hitting the leaves and
listen to the kids screaming inside and the sirens
screaming up on the highway and hope that no one
is hurt.

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